


Anything Cliché

by sharim28



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-10-25 09:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharim28/pseuds/sharim28
Summary: "Well," the Colonel says. "This is a cliché."





	1. She looks good in blue

**Author's Note:**

> Nellie's prompt for the 2018 Secret Santa Challenge on Tumblr was "Anything Cliché". Apparently, I really really really love this prompt because this is my second response to it! So Nellie, here is a second gift for you! 
> 
> Thank you to the fabulous Sarah_M for the wonderful beta job. Any typos and comma's that have snuck under her radar are entirely my fault! 
> 
> Please enjoy the fluff and cliches. I really do love a good cliché!

“Well,” Colonel O’Neill says. “This is a cliché.”

“It is?” she asks doubtfully.

“Well, it’s starting to become a bit of a _thing_ ,” Daniel says, oh-so-helpfully. “You know, alien cultures wanting to dress you in blue.”

“He does have a point,” the Colonel agrees.

“You look amazing though,” Daniel says, as though this is the important part.

Sam’s not entirely sure that she’s happy about Daniel’s assertions.

“I’m not _dressed_ in blue, I _am_ blue. I look like a smurf,” she says, trying hard to sound like the Air Force Captain she is.

“Wrong hat,” the Colonel disagrees.

“What is a smurf?” Teal’c asks.

“Tell me again why I have to be blue?” Sam asks Daniel.

“Tonight is the festival of Kai-Um, which appears based on the Japanese language for ‘ocean’-”

“Cut to the chase, Daniel,” the Colonel orders.

“You have blue eyes, Sam, and they think you’ve been sent by their ocean goddess, Kai.”

Sam stares accusingly at Daniel. “You have blue eyes too.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But I’m male. And their goddess is female.”

She’s trying really hard not to think about the fact that the bikini — which is apparently a part of the ceremonial dress of their goddess— is very much accentuating the fact that yes, she is female.

“You really think this algae is worth it?” the Colonel asks.

“Yes,” Sam says without hesitation. An algae the local people have incorporated into every single aspect of their daily living – including medications, diet and clothing – could be an incredibly valuable resource for sustainability going into the future. And the potential in pharmaceuticals… It’s definitely worth the embarrassment and awkwardness if it helps foster a relationship with these people.

“As long as I’m not kidnapped again,” she adds as an afterthought.

“Carter,” the Colonel says, “I’m not going to let you out of my sight tonight.”

She’s pretty sure he means keeping a close watch on her to prevent any kidnapping attempts or other cultural misunderstandings, but something in his eye and the tone of his voice makes her belly jolt and her skin tingle in a way that it has no business doing. She swallows, her throat suddenly dry.

He keeps his promise; all through the festivities he stays with her, not close enough to hover but close enough that she feels the solid reassurance of his presence. It’s silly really, to feel reassured by his presence; the people on this planet are simple and friendly, and she is quite capable of defending herself. But it’s nice to know that he’s watching her back - and perhaps her front too at times, even though she tells herself that she’s not wondering if he finds her attractive.  

The people here throw a great party, and as the representation of their goddess she’s dragged deep into the dancing and celebration. She finds herself forgetting about blue body paint and inappropriate attire and enjoys the atmosphere - the pounding beat of the drums and the smooth call of their stringed instruments as they stamp and swirl their way across the sand. Clusters of shells hanging from palm trees accompany the music, while the beach is ablaze with periodic bonfires. Really, this planet - and party - is one of the better ones they’ve been too.

She’s dancing with some children when suddenly he’s in the crowd with her. He’s a dark shadow in his regulation t-shirt and BDU pants, with his skin glinting burnished gold under the firelight. Her skin tingles with a warm buzz of recognition, something flickering to life inside her belly at the sight of him.

“Having fun?” he asks as he sways along with the music and scatters sand with his bare feet. She’s never seen him join in with festivities willingly before, unless it involves trying the local moonshine with the Abydonian boys.

“Not a bad way to spend a night, or a mission,” she says, feeling free with the breeze in her hair and the smell of driftwood burning on the air.

“You look good in blue,” he tells her, and her feet stumble in the sand. He disappears back into the crowd, close enough to feel him watching but not too close that he’s hovering.

She doesn’t start dancing again until the children take her hands and encourage her, and when she does there’s a grin on her face and a tingle in her belly.


	2. There was only one bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rough hewn cabin is tiny, mostly filled with a raised platform covered in furs. There is hardly any space to move around the local version of a small double bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Sarah_M for the fabulous beta.

“Well,” Jack says, as the door shuts behind him. “This is a cliché.”

The rough hewn cabin is tiny, mostly filled with a raised platform covered in furs. There is hardly any space to move around the local version of a small double bed.

“Snug,” Carter comments.

The storm outside is torrential, and her blond hair is plastered against her face. Jack’s eyes trace a stray droplet of water that runs down the elegant slope of her neck and disappears under her BDU jacket. He forces his gaze away from her and focuses on the buckles of his pack, his cold fingers struggling to find enough dexterity to undo them.

“Well, at least it will be warmer than camping,” Daniel says cheerily, unclipping his pack and dumping it on the rough wooden boards, a small puddle of water gathering around his feet.

“Not by much,” Jack disagrees. Outside the small cabin the wind is howling, and the heavy rainfall is thundering against the timber roof.

“I’d rather be in here than out there in a tent,” Daniel says, still ridiculously cheerful.

“You’re just happy because they’re taking you into their temple when the weather lets up,” Carter says as she dumps her own pack on the floor by her feet. “You’re normally the first one to complain about the weather.”

For the next few minutes the team is quiet; only the sounds of rustling clothing and removal of unnecessary gear accompanies the staccato of the heavy rainfall.

“We may as well turn in,” Jack says, checking his wrist watch after they’ve eaten cold MREs and power bars. “Watch as usual.”

“Who’s sleeping where?” Daniel asks.

Teal’c, who has placed his pack in a corner, claims his side of the floor. “This space will be sufficient for Kel’no’reem.”

“Rock, paper or scissors?” Jack asks, looking at the remaining team members.

“I’ll take the floor,” Daniel says. “I’m used to sleeping on the ground.”

“And you feel guilty because you’re the one who wanted to stay another day and got us stuck in this monsoon in the first place,” Jack says.

“No,” Daniel says, irritated. “I was thinking about your knees.”

“No one needs to be on the floor,” Carter interjects, well used to their sniping. “I’m not ready to sleep yet. I’ll take second watch and sit up with Teal’c while he takes first watch. I can switch with the Colonel when he takes watch.”

\---

In the early hours of the morning just before his watch finishes, the thundering of the rain on the roof starts to ease, but the air in the small cabin is frigid. Carter and Daniel are bundled together in the middle of the bed, lost under a pile of furs and sleeping bags. There’s a part of him that feels guilty waking Daniel for his watch, but a larger part of him is tired and cold and desperate for the warmth of the bed.

Daniel mutters and complains when Jack wakes him – standard procedure – and looks abjectly miserable when Jack hands him the sleeping bag he’s wrapped around his shoulders for warmth during the watch.

Jack slides into the bed – the warmth of the covers Daniel just vacated are almost hot against his chilled skin. Carter, who has the enviable ability of not really waking up during watch changes, stirs and murmurs in her sleep, and then curls up beside him. Jack lies awake for much longer than he should, the soft scent of Carter’s hair somehow discernible over the wet and damp. She sighs, the puff of her breath close to his shoulder.

He closes his eyes and forces himself to relax.

When Teal’c wakes them later that morning, he’s curled around Carter’s back with his nose nuzzled against her neck and arms wrapped around her waist. His fingers are under her t-shirt, moving unconsciously over the smoothness of her skin. It takes a moment too long to realize that this is wrong; to remember _why_ this is wrong. His fingers pause in their travels, the soft curve of her hip tempting him with a tantalising territory to explore.

“I don’t want to get up,” she says, stretching against him, her voice unusually thick with sleep given they’re on a mission off-world.

Jack agrees; he could stay in bed with Carter all day. He opens his eyes and sees Teal’c watching him, a knowing look in his eye. Reluctantly he pulls his arms away and sits up; beside him Carter sits up too.

Normally, Sam Carter is up and out of her camp bed like a flash, awake with the sun and ready to go, but right now she is moving languidly, still heavy with sleep. Jack’s never really taken the opportunity to study a sleep mussed Carter with slightly confused eyes and rosy skin, and he thinks there’s probably a very professional reason for that. In this moment, with the memory of her still warm in his arms, he realizes how easily he could slip down that rabbit hole and never reappear. She meets his gaze, then briefly her eyes flick down to his mouth. He can’t help licking his lips, unable to stop himself glancing at her lips, before meeting her gaze guiltily with his own.

He can almost hear the thoughts churning in her head as the last vestiges of sleep clear from her eyes. She transforms back to his Captain, rather than the soft woman sharing his bed.

“Sir!” she says, cheeks pink and flustered.

“At ease, Captain. Let’s go see if Daniel’s got some coffee going.”

“Coffee would be good,” he hears her mutter as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and climbs slowly to his feet.

By the time he sits down next to her with a hot coffee in his hands, the only traces of the woman who had slept in his arms are the hint of pink remaining in her cheeks and the slightly sheepish smile she shoots at him.

He rarely gets a glimpse of Sam, particularly in the field. It’s probably a good thing that Carter is so skilled at wearing her professional mask, because Sam is a woman Jack could quite easily get to know.   


	3. Underneath the Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes,” Colonel O’Neill agrees. “It is tradition to kiss underneath mistletoe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Sarah_M, because you are amazing xx

“Well,” the Colonel says. “This is a cliché.”

“No, it’s a tradition,” Cassie corrects. 

Cassie is looking at them expectantly. Sam’s trying very hard not to show her panic face. It’s not that she  _ doesn’t _ want to kiss the Colonel. The problem is that she  _ does _ want to kiss him. Well, it’s not that she wants to kiss him as much as she’s been wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

Two alternate realities down, and in both of those realities Samantha Carter and Jack O’Neill were very much in love. So in love that she got to witness an intimate goodbye kiss between her Colonel and another Sam Carter.

And ever since then, she’s wondered.

Wondered what he tastes like. What his lips would feel like against hers. What it would feel like to comb her fingers through his hair. To rest her head on his shoulder while he holds her.

The vague memories of waking up in his arms one cold, wet morning off-world - along with the occasional hug over the years - has Sam fairly certain that being in Jack O’Neill’s arms would be a very enjoyable way to pass the time. 

However, wondering in the privacy of her own mind is very different to being trapped at the Fraiser’s annual Christmas party by an insistent Cassandra Fraiser pointing at a bunch of mistletoe over their heads.

“Yes,” Colonel O’Neill agrees. “It is tradition to kiss underneath mistletoe.”

Sam’s insides clench - anticipation, excitement and fear. Fear because she’s terrified that kissing Jack O’Neill would be even more addictive than the odd daydream about kissing Jack O’Neill.

“However,” the Colonel continues, “that’s not mistletoe.”

Sam glances back up at the greenery.

“It’s not?” Cassie asks.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s holly.”

Sam’s not sure if the overwhelming feeling flooding through her is relief or disappointment. She decides she’s not going to examine it too closely.

“Oh,” Cassie says, disappointed.

“You need to lay off the Hallmark movies,” the Colonel says, waving his Guiness at Cassie. “Life’s not all mistletoe and happy ever afters, you know.”

“It should be.”

Cassie’s a tough kid; over the last couple of years she’s worked hard to fit into life on Earth and not get caught up in the trauma of her losses. Sometimes though, that devastated little girl they found on Hanka creeps to the surface.

“You’re right,” the Colonel says gently, an odd look on his face as he considers the teenager. “Carter?”

“Sir?”

“Sometimes mistletoe and holly can be used interchangeably, right?” 

He’s asking permission, she realizes.

“Definitely.” 

Does she sound too eager?

The kiss is light and gentle and far too brief to really answer her wonderings. His lips are firm and cool, with the taste of guinness lingering after he pulls away. The skipping beat of her heart and faint rushing in her ears lasts far longer than the kiss, and she wonders if he can see the pulse hammering in her neck. He smiles at her, those inviting lips parting to show his teeth. She can’t help but smile back at him, like someone drugged by a single kiss.

Hours later her lips are still tingling. Sam checks them discreetly in the hall mirror as she’s leaving Janet’s, irrationally worried that she might be allergic to Guinness.

They look the same as ever; there’s no evidence of the briefest taste of everything she can’t have. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I started this for the Secret Santa exchange?
> 
> Also, I'm so excited by how much you're all enjoying this - the comments and messages have just been so lovely! So thank you all for the feedback, and hope you keep enjoying the clichés!


	4. Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His pushes his pie to the middle of the table, one of the forks angled towards her. She looks at the pie for a moment, before smiling at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to Sarah_M, without whom you would all be overrun by comma's. 
> 
> Also sorry for the delay - how dare real life intrude!

“Well,” Jack says. “This is a cliche.”

“It is?” Carter asks, smiling up at him, seemingly not surprised to hear his voice behind her ear.

Except she doesn’t look or sound like Carter when she turns around to look at him. Dressed in a a flirty summer dress, she looks completely different. She looks like Samantha.

“You know, accidentally ending up at the same cafe and there’s only one table left, so we’ll just have to sit next to each other.”

“Hmm, yes,” she says and there’s a glint of suspicion and knowing in her eyes, despite the laughter and easiness he sees there.

He orders at the same time as she does, and then covers the bill. He’s pleased when she smiles at him shyly rather than arguing the point. Silently, they walk to a single table despite several empty tables around them.

“I’m interrupting your reading time.” He nodes to the book tucked under her arm.

“I’d rather the company,” she says, shaking her head and placing the book cover-down on the table between them. “It’s why I came out here; home was too quiet.”

“Yeah,” he says; the newspaper in his hands tells a similar story. In the days since their return from P3R-118, Jack’s felt that same echoing silence in his own house. “Sun’s nice though.”

“Oh yeah,” she agrees, smiling.

Their coffee arrives and he takes the moment to study her while she’s smiling up at the waiter delivering the drinks and piece of pie, trying to work out what it is about her that’s so  _ different _ ― small earrings flash in her ears and there’s a bit of colour around her eyes suggesting make-up. But other than that… nothing.

Maybe it’s just the expression on her face, he thinks, when she turns back to look at him and smiles. There’s no stress, no seriousness, and no hint of the professional soldier in the way she’s sitting at the chair and gazing at him unguardedly.

He finds he can’t do anything but smile back at her goofily, his heart thudding crazily in his chest at the fact that she’s sitting there opposite him in a pretty summer dress.

“What are you doing today, sir?” she asks, shattering his brief erratic thoughts about dates and dresses and pretty smiles. He’s really starting to hate the word ‘sir’ he thinks, looking down at his coffee and pie.

“Go for a walk. Enjoy the sunshine.”

“Sounds great,” she says, that openness still on her face.

His pushes his pie to the middle of the table, one of the forks angled towards her. She looks at the pie for a moment, before smiling at him.

“Thanks,” she says, taking the fork.

He can’t help himself watching her hand as she breaks off a small piece of pie with the fork, and then follows its journey up to her mouth where his gaze lingers on her lips. Those lips are smiling slightly as he watches them. He realises what he’s doing and tears his eyes away, looking down at the piece of pie instead.

“This is good pie,” she murmurs, her voice thick and definitely  _ not _ sounding like Carter.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, wondering why his own voice sounds so thick and hoarse.

She’s right, the pie is good, but it’s the last thing he’s paying attention too, because his eyes keep wandering back to her and wondering what the pie would taste like on her lips.

And that, he tells himself firmly, is the reason why coffee and pie with Carter out of uniform is  _ not _ a good idea. Clearing his throat he pulls his newspaper closer and tries to focus on the page.

The silence between them is comfortable, broken only by the soft clinking of their cups on the saucer and the forks against the plate as they slowly eat their way through his slice of pie. He thinks maybe she feels the same pleasure that he does at this inadvertent meeting; an illicit little thrill of acknowledging what cannot be acknowledged. It nourishes the steady burn of emotion he feels for this woman, teases a small, bright little flame of excitement into existence. He enjoys the thrill while it twists and turns in his belly, the echo of their confessions some months ago louder in his mind than it has been for a while. When their hands occasionally brush reaching for the pie, neither pulls away, and he tries to memorise the way it feels to casually slide his hand against hers when their lives aren’t at stake.

Nothing can come of this, he thinks as he sips at his coffee and finds the crossword.

By unspoken agreement she gets them each a second drink, lingering as long as they can while the sun slowly rises higher in the sky. Eventually though, the cups are empty and there’s no way to draw it out anymore without turning it into something more than it should be.

“This was fun,” he says as he closes the paper, taking his time folding it shut tidily in a way he doesn’t normally bother with.

“Yeah,” she agrees, closing her book. She rests her hands on the cover, smiling at him over their empty table. “It’s been nice.”

He doesn’t want to stand up. Doesn’t want to end this moment that’s been spun like fine silk around them. But the day is dragging on, and while it’s okay to accidentally run into his Major and have coffee with her once, it’s not okay to spend all day sitting at a table in a public place staring at her.

She sighs and slowly gathers herself before rising to her feet.

“We should do it again,” he says, desperate to hold onto this moment.

“Yeah, we should.”

They both know they won’t do this again - meet on a Saturday and share each other's company over pie and coffee. He says goodbye and watches as she walks out the door, disappearing into the sunshine beyond. As the door closes behind her, the cafe seems that little bit darker and emptier, as though she took the warmth of the day with her.

Carefully Jack tucks the memory of the moment alongside all the other moments he’s been collecting for the last few years, knowing that when things are lonely at home he’ll allow himself to remember this morning and they way she looked when she wasn’t calling him sir.


	5. Stuck in a moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How’re you doing there, Carter?”
> 
> “Okay, sir.”
> 
> Is that her voice sounding so breathy?
> 
> “Any progress?”
> 
> “It’s been three minutes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with all the chapters in this fic, thanks to Sarah_M for making it 100% better than it was! 
> 
> And thanks to everyone who has been reading this fic, particularly those of you who've sent comments/messages etc, because it's so much more fun knowing it's not just me enjoying the cliches!

“Well,” the Colonel says, “this is a cliche.”

With the heat of his breath warm against the sensitive skin behind her ear and the hard heat of him pressed into her back, Sam can’t help but agree. A very nice cliche for a change. Except for the whole being stuck together in a confined space part of it.

“How’re you doing there, Carter?”

“Okay, sir.”

Is that her voice sounding so breathy?

“Any progress?”

“It’s been three minutes, sir.”

He shifts against her, humming in acknowledgement. She tries to clear her mind, trying to focus on her job instead of the way it feels pressed against his body. The control panel is flush against her, the tiny transportation pod not designed for more than one occupant. The dim lighting from the panel is almost obscured by her tac-vest, and she can barely see what she should be working on.

Trying to push back for more room to work only results in pressing harder against him.

“Carter?”

Was that a hint of a groan on his voice?

She shifts against him again, trying to twist to the side, and there’s a soft hiss from him. It’s her turn to gasp when his hands are suddenly resting on her hips, holding them still.

“Talk to me,” he instructs, the words hot against her neck.

She really wishes he’d stop speaking actually, because the rumble of his chest against her back is very distracting. There’s no way she’s going to concentrate right now.

“I need to see the panel to work out how to operate it, sir.”

“And?”

“I’m trying to move so that I can see and access it.”

“Can we try turning?”

“Let’s go clockwise.”

It’s an awkward sort of dance as they shuffle slowly clockwise for a quarter of a turn, his hands on her hips guiding their movements. The positioning is better, but space is still a problem.

“What are you doing?” his voice is almost panicked as the sound of her zipper being undone cuts through the air.

“Taking off my tac vest.”

His fingers tighten briefly against her hip. “You’re what?”

“Taking off my tac vest,” she repeats, wriggling to try and dislodge the vest from her shoulders.

His fingers clutch at her hips again, stilling her movements. “Why?”

“It’s in the way. It might help me access the panel if I have a little more room. Can you give me a hand, please sir?”

There’s no way she can miss the breath he draws in against her, as though steeling himself before his hands brush against her sides. She tracks the movement of his hands up her sides until they reach her shoulders and slowly help push off the offending vest. When she releases the breath she was holding, she hopes the hitch as it catches in her throat is not too audible.

“That’s not much better.” The control panel is still not very accessible.

“Try anyway.”

She tries for several minutes, twisting and tilting and trying to peer down at the panel to see what she’s doing, but the reality is she’s just hitting random buttons in random sequences, hoping something surprising will happen to let them out.

“Any luck yet?”

As though his words pre-empted it, there is a shudder in the pod and a thick darkness descends over them as the light from the control panel dies. The doors behind the Colonel remain shut tight.

“Carter?”

She leans her head forward against the wall of the pod and sighs. “No, sir.”

In the inky darkness, she’s even more aware of the heat of him behind her.

“Can you reach your flashlight, sir?”

There’s a beat of silence for too long before he answers.  

“No.”

She’s still trying the panel half-heartedly, hoping that despite its apparent loss of power, _something_ might still be working to let them out.

“Any ideas?” he asks hopefully. “Because I’m fresh out.”

She’s trying desperately to engage her brain, trying to think about the problem at hand, but instead all she can focus on is the feel of his fingers now back on her hips and the hot, damp puff of his breath against her ear. Her breaths are shallow in response, heat pooling between her legs.

She only realises that she’s leant her head back against his chest, tilting her head when the next time he speaks she can _feel_ his lips brushing against her skin.

“Carter?” his voice is little more than a hoarse whisper.

“Hm?” she asks, savouring the way his lips linger at her pulse.

“Ideas?”

Oh yes, she has ideas. She has lots of ideas. Probably not the type of idea he is talking about, but good ideas nonetheless. Then again, judging by the insistent pressure she can feel just at her hip, maybe he is talking about the same ideas. Despite herself, she presses back against him and is rewarded by a very audible groan against her neck that she can feel right down into her soul.

In the dark, stuffy pod, it feels like he is all around her. The drugging scent of him is everywhere; the thump of his heartbeat against her back and the burning heat of his fingers as they slip under cloth and sear her skin. She gasps, her breasts feeling heavy and aching for his touch as he drags his face down her neck, stubble scratching in a way that sends a lick of fire to her core. He buries his face in the base of her neck and sighs heavily.

“What are we doing, Carter?” he asks, his lips moving against her skin.

“I don’t know,” she lies, pressing against him again.

She knows exactly what she’s doing - she wants him. Desperately. Achingly. Wants him physically in a way she’s never let herself show him. The years of denial and trying to be careful are starting to harden the feelings she has for him. She’s terrified that if they keep playing this carefully controlled game — following the rules — the feelings will wither and die, and all she’ll be left with is a dry husk devoid of emotion. Maybe even resentment.

In the early days after their forced confessions, the secret was something wonderful that warmed her soul. Every small smile and incidental touch was something to be cherished and hoarded. But somehow, over time, those small moments are too few and far between, and now achingly not enough. The resentment and frustration is starting to suffocate something that has never been given a chance to grow.

So this fire exploding in her now, the desperate burn for his touch and his kisses and his love - she wants this. Desperately. Fiercely.

Behind her, he presses back, his fingers digging into her hips as he pulls her even tighter against him, leaving her no doubt that he wants this was much as she does. His teeth graze the cords of her neck. Her hand has come up to his head, and she scrapes her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, tugging desperately.

She hears the raggedness of his breath, feels the control unravelling as his hips jerk against her, pushing his hardness against her.

“We can’t.”

She wants to argue. Wants to ask why not. Wants to tell him he’s wrong and they can.

But he’s right.

As quickly as it ignited, the flames extinguish, nothing but awkwardness and pain left in its wake.

If she could pull away from him, she would, but there’s nowhere to go and no space between them. Her eyes sting. Shame? Regret? Grief? She’s not sure which, but she fights the air that is suddenly too thick to breathe, and tries desperately to keep her breaths slow and steady.

His hold on her changes, but instead of letting her go, his arms cross over her, pulling her back against him in a completely different kind of embrace. She folds into his arms, fitting against him as though she was made to be held by him. The racing of her heart slows down eventually, but the ache in her soul doesn’t ease.

This is what she wants, she realises. This. The intimacy, the comfort, the closeness. The steady beat of his heart echoing hers, and gentle puffs of air against her neck where she holds his head tightly against her. She wants this all the time, not hidden away in a dark little room where no one can see and no one can know.

But she’ll take what she can get, because with the absence of that fire inside she feels cold and empty, and she’s desperate enough for whatever he can give her.

By the time Daniel and Teal’c work out how to release them, there’s no evidence of the volatility of the emotions trapped in that tiny little pod. Sam can almost see the stale air and emotions dissipating into the atmosphere as they tumble out, arms still tangled and tripping over her abandoned tac vest.

“You guys okay?” Daniel asks, holding out a hand and helping her up.

“We’re good,” the Colonel answers, dusting off his BDUs.

Except he’s lying, Sam thinks, because she’s pretty sure something didn’t survive the suffocation of that dark little pod.


	6. Under the Influence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam looks down at him, sprawled on a hessian mat, wearing strange pants and missing his shirt; an elaborate headdress is tipped drunkenly to the side of his head. His eyes seem a little unfocused and glazed, and the smile he sends her is definitely dopey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always, thanks to Sarah_M for the comma patrol. More importantly, thank you for cutting this chapter into shape and your honesty - without you, it would have stalled long ago!!

“Well,” the Colonel says. “This is a cliché.”

Sam looks down at him, sprawled on a hessian mat, wearing strange pants and missing his shirt; an elaborate headdress is tipped drunkenly to the side of his head. His eyes seem a little unfocused and glazed, and the smile he sends her is definitely dopey.

“Sir, with all due respect, _how_ is this a cliché?”

“Well, there’s kidnapping and local people trying to steal my virtue, and then my knight in shining armour rescuing me on horseback.”

The silly grin isn’t fading, and he seems far too relaxed for an Air Force Colonel who’s been kidnapped.

“Are you _high_?”

“No?” he says. “Well. Maybe a little. But you _are_ on horseback, which makes you kinda high too.” He looks far too pleased with himself.

It’s been nineteen long hours since she saw him; the panic and fear in those nineteen hours was almost suffocating. There was tracking and negotiations and unvoiced threats, and finally an exchange of medicines and first aid supplies for the return of their team mate. And now that she’s found him, and he’s laying back on a rug, half naked and stoned off his face… Sam’s not entirely sure she’s capable of dealing with this professionally.

“I believe Colonel O’Neill is under the influence of Ha’amat leaf _,_ ” Turid, their guide offers helpfully.

“What exactly is hamat leaf?” Sam asks.

“Ha’amat is a medicinal substance used to increase love-making prowess, but it does somewhat impair judgment. It’s commonly taken at times of festivity and to promote fertility. Or, on rare occasions, given in deception to secure a bonding contract with an unwilling mate.”

“So a date rape drug?” Sam interprets.

“I am not familiar with this terminology,” Turid apologises.

“Relax, Carter, no one’s raped me. I’ve been saving myself for you.”

Sam gapes at him as he climbs to his feet, wobbling slightly before shoving the headdress back into a more appropriate position.

“You’re what?”

“I told them I was _already married_ ,” he says, peering around, a smug look on his face. “They drugged me because… because… I don’t really know. But it’s good stuff.” He staggers slightly to the side, coming to an ungraceful halt against the flank of Sam’s horse.

“Well,” she says, fighting to stay calm. “I’m so glad it’s good stuff. I think we need to get you back to the infirmary and checked out.”

“Ha’amat is not toxic,” Turid assures her. “It’s effects will wear off within a day. It is a long ride back to the Chappa’ai, and I do not believe that you or Teal’c will manage the journey safely without rest.”

Nineteen hours of panic and searching and tracking the Colonel to this little hell-hole of a village, on top of several hours of mission and preparation before that is starting to add up. The adrenalin is wearing thin, and Sam is feeling almost dizzy with exhaustion.

“I believe Turid is correct, Major Carter,” Teal’c says quietly. “I will require Kel’no’reem and you require sleep.”

Sam rubs at her face, trying to think through the fog trying to cloud her mind. “We need to get closer to the gate,” she says finally. “We can’t stay here.”

“Yes,” Turid agrees, looking around. “The Edron are desperate, and it is not always apparent when they will act in a duplicitous manner. We will be safer travelling some distance before making camp.”

It takes Teal’c four attempts to help the Colonel onto the back of Sam’s horse, where he leans heavily against her and wraps his arms around her waist.

“Sir?” she asks, when a hand starts to creep higher than it should.

“We’re married now, Carter.”

“No, sir, we’re not,” she says firmly, pushing his hand down. The feel of him against her back — a position so reminiscent of a moment in a transport pod several months back — is almost more drugging than the exhaustion clawing at her.  

When he’s finally settled — hands appropriately placed — Sam nudges her horse forward. The steady, gentle gait of their mount is soothing, and Sam relaxes into the warmth of the Colonel sitting behind her, trying hard not to think about the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt.

By Sam’s calculations, the Stargate is several hours ride from where they retrieved the Colonel. Less than ten minutes into the ride, Sam is already wishing it’s over.

“Are we almost there yet?”

“No sir. A few more hours to go.”

“I’m bored.”

“Why don’t you count the trees or something?”

“Carter?”

“Sir?”

“Are you _mocking_ me?”

“Never, sir.”

“Hmm.”

She thinks that _maybe_ he might be quiet for a while.

“Hey Carter?”

“Yes sir?”

“You smell good.”

Heading towards twenty hours of mission time, with no sleep or breaks, Sam thinks that’s highly unlikely. “Thanks, sir.”

_Sniff._

“Sir, are you _sniffing_ my hair?”

“No.”

There’s a loud, long, indrawn breath that has cool air rushing past the nape of her neck. As though that rush of air is some sort of trigger sliding over her skin, she’s suddenly hyper-aware of the heat of his thighs pressing against hers while his body rocks rhythmically with hers in tandem with the gait of the horse; it simulates something she really shouldn’t be thinking about.

 _Sniff_.

“Colonel?”

“Sorry, Carter. But you smell good.”

The heat of his breath is stirring the hair of her neck, and her skin feels like it’s crawling with a live undercurrent she’s trying desperately to stem. Flashes of the last time he was pressed behind her like this flood her mind despite her best attempts, and her body ignites to life again.

“You’re too tense, Carter,” he comments, breath hot and damp against her ear, a brief nuzzle against her temple. “You’re as stiff as a board.”

“I’m riding a horse, sir, on an alien planet, and trying to get you back to the SGC in one, not-too-stoned piece. I’m pretty sure it’s okay to be tense.”

There are other reasons why she’s tense, but there’s no way she’s telling him that.

“Yeah,” he drawls, shifting against her. Maybe in her exhausted state she’s imagining it, but she swears she feels a brief, damp kiss behind her ear. “But you’re, like, _really_ tense.”

“What are you doing?” she asks, concerned when he lets go of her waist.

“I think you need a massage.”

“I think you need to hold on, sir.”

“Relax.”

His fingers knead at the tight muscles of her shoulders through her BDUs, applying a deep pressure as they circle and squeeze, and then slowly climb towards her neck. The tension ratchets up a level when his callused fingers brush against the skin of her neck; it’s almost difficult to draw breath. When she tries to let the breath out, a tiny little moan escapes with it.

“Carter?” he whispers against her ear.

“Yes?”

“You- _Crap!_ ”

The horse stumbles and jolts its stride, and before Sam has time to react, the Colonel is lying in the dirt, dishevelled and disoriented.

“I believe Major Carter was correct in telling you to hold on, O’Neill,” Teal’c offers, still securely astride his own horse.

“What the hell was that?” the Colonel asks, sitting up and looking around.

“Teal’c, do you think it might be worth setting up camp?”

The look Teal’c sends is far more expressive than his simply voiced “Indeed.”

\---

The campsite is small and barely more than a hastily lit fire in a natural hollow surrounded by fallen trees. They erect a single tent, and Sam takes care of putting some water on for a hot drink. Teal’c does a perimeter check around their campsite, laying a few brush traps and alarms. Turid returns carrying two small animals with arrows protruding from them — a quick and successful hunt.

Really, Sam would like nothing more than to just curl up in her sleeping bag and pass out, but with the Colonel essentially out of action, and only her and Teal’c left, she’s well aware it’s going to be a long night ahead while they split the watch between them. She’s always known a four man team was a ideal; this mission as a three man team has convinced her that, despite the Colonel’s delaying and avoidance, they really do need to find a fourth.

A replacement for Daniel.

Her tired mind tries to push the melancholy thoughts away as she accepts a skewer of hot meat from Turid to supplement the bland MRE. Neither is really appealing at this point, but if she’s got to pull a five hour watch, a full belly will give her some of the energy she’ll need.

Beside her — very close beside her actually — the Colonel devours his skewer of meat and MRE, and then delves his hand into her pack searching for more food.

“Hungry?” she asks, taking a careful bite of the unfamiliar meat — it’s good, if gamey.

“Starving,” he says, rifling through the contents. “Where are all your power bars?”

“You’ve eaten them already.”

“Ha’amat can increase ones appetite,” Turid offers from the other side of the fire.

“What about your emergency bar?”

“That’s for emergencies.”

She raises an eyebrow at him as he pulls out the squashed bar from a side pocket of her pack.

“What? This is an emergency.”

“I don’t believe having the munchies is considered an emergency,” Sam says, too tired to argue.

The Colonel unwraps the bar and eats it before Sam has finished her MRE, and as soon as his hand is empty of food, it gravitates back to her knee where it’s been resting since they sat on the log.

This drug has made him very touchy-feely. She should tell him to move it — again— but the truth is, she’s enjoying the contact between them. In the months since the pod incident, and now the weeks since Daniel’s death, it feels like things have become more and more distant between them. Contact has been minimal, as though both are afraid that an accidental brush of the fingers will cause the situation to spin rapidly out of control.

“Daniel always had an extra emergency stash.”

Her heart jolts painfully in her chest, and she looks at him sharply in the firelight. It’s the first time anyone has voiced the fact that Daniel is not on this mission. It’s their first standard mission through the gate since Daniel died — or ascended, or whatever — and Sam keeps waiting to hear Daniel offer some insights into the local people, or deliver a dry line at Jack’s predicament. But the reality is, Daniel isn’t here, and this mission has been nothing short of a disaster.

There’s a rustling, and Teal’c moves around to their side of the fire, something in his hand reflecting the firelight.

“I have brought Daniel Jackson’s emergency stash,” Teal’c says quietly, revealing another power bar.

The fingers over her knee tighten and without thinking Sam leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder. After a long pause the Colonel reaches out and accepts the bar, and then Teal’c sits down beside them.

For a time they sit and stare at the fire; Sam’s half aware of the Colonel’s thumb moving against her thigh. The flames are hypnotising and she’s comfortable against his shoulder; it feels  natural to sit with him like this. She has to fight to keep her eyes open. She wonders how long she can hold onto this moment; if she’ll always remember it - the sensation of resting against him while he draws slow, regular breaths, the way his scent and woodsmoke and cool night air blends around her in the golden glow cast by the crackling fire.

Turid rises fluidly to his feet. “I bid you rest well,” he says quietly, and then disappears into the shadows where he has built himself a crude shelter and mat out of leafy branches. With Turid’s departure the dream-like haze that settled over Sam dissipates, and the return of awareness is like a splash of cold water against her face.

She sits up and straight and rubs at her face, trying to wake herself up properly; away from the Colonel’s warmth the evening seems that much cooler.

“Are you happy to take second watch, Teal’c?” she asks. As much as she’d like to go to sleep, she knows it will be easier to stay awake now rather than to try and function for a watch after a limited rest.

“Yes.”

Teal’c bids them goodnight and disappears into the tent, leaving Sam alone on the log beside the Colonel. Now the firelight and stillness of the evening seems far too intimate with a half-naked man who she’s attracted to but can’t have. Especially when that man appears to have lost a lot of his usual inhibitions and control thanks to a drug.

“You should turn in too, Colonel.”

“I’m not tired,” he says. “You should get some rest.”

She’d love too, she really would, but with his impaired judgement there’s no way she’s leaving the Colonel on his own for a watch. Instead she busies herself readying more water for the coffee - with all this caffeine, chances are she’ll struggle to sleep once her watch is over, but she’d rather difficulty sleeping than falling asleep on a watch.

When she sits back on the log, he shifts closer to her.

“Colonel-”

“Jack,” he interrupts, that hand sneaking back onto her thigh.

“Sir?”

“My name is Jack,” he says.

“I know.” She gently dislodges his hand; this is a game they should not be playing, as much as she wants to play it.

“Call me Jack.”

“You’re still my commanding officer, Colonel.”

“I’m not exactly acting like it tonight.”

“No, you’re not,” she agrees. “But you will tomorrow, and the next day.”

He deliberately nudges her thigh with his.

“I don’t have to be.”

“What does that mean?”

“I could retire. Take it all out of the room. You know, have a life and all that.”

The hand he places back on her thigh is deliberate, solid and warm. Sam closes her eyes and forces herself not to lean back into him.

“You don’t mean that.”

It’s the drugs talking. It must be.

He’s quiet as they watch the fire where the pot of water is starting to gently steam, tendrils of condensed air being swept up in the dancing flames.

“I do mean it.”

For the first time since they found him, she thinks he sounds like himself. Like it’s Colonel O’Neill talking, and not the Ha’amat. Except she doubts the Colonel would ever start a conversation like this, let alone participate willingly.

“I think you do mean it,” she says carefully, not risking a glance at him, “but I don’t think you’d say it if you weren’t under the influence.”

He sighs heavily next to her. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Since… well. A while.”

“So what makes now different?”

He shrugs, a restless energy barely contained in the movement. “Daniel’s gone.”

Again that aching jolt hits her chest; a crushing grief that hasn’t been this overwhelming since her mother died.

“But nothing’s changed,” she says gently, her tone belying the rushing tide of emotions trying to sweep her away. “We’re still fighting the same fight, with the same duty and obligations.”

The only thing that’s changed, really, is the gradual disintegration of their team in the light of Daniel’s death. The rigidity with which the Colonel’s withdrawn into himself, and the comfort neither he not Teal’c are able to offer her are crystallizing her grief. She’s so lonely and hurt and lost, and her team hasn’t been there for her in the way she’s needed them to be.

“Things _can_ change,” he says.

Sam licks her lips, and tries hard to slow the hammering of her heart down. That hand on her thigh is moving slowly, creeping higher, thumb drawing gentle patterns while he presses snugly against her side.

Because he’s drugged and vulnerable, and she’s still trying to move on from the transport pod and the chaos of Daniel’s death, she uses the excuse of reaching for the boiling water as a means of gently maneuvering away from him.

Except he follows her, and puts an arm around her shoulders, tugging her close and resting his head against hers. It says something about her own state of mind that she doesn’t object, but rather gives in and lets him hold her, enjoying the feel of his skin against her cheek.

This should not be happening, she tells herself. Like the pod, it’s going to damage something between them irreparably, and she’s already lost enough that she doesn’t want to lose anymore. But she can’t seem to pull away again; she’s drawn towards him as though he is her gravity. She tells herself the innocence of the embrace is a small comfort, and that it’s the drug that’s loosening his inhibitions with her tonight. She wonders what her excuse is.

“I don’t want to lose you too,” he whispers against her hair, the words are so quiet she almost loses them under the crackling of the fire.

“You won’t,” she says against his skin, but some promises are empty, and really, she’s not his to lose.

As though he senses the futility of her promise, he twists and hauls her into his arms, crushing her close to his chest and burying his face in her hair. “I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I just.. I need…”

“It’s okay,” she whispers, her own arms wrapping around his back and digging into his shoulder as she returns the embrace. “I know.”

She drops the kiss on his shoulder without thinking, intending on gentle reassurance. He shudders beneath her lips.

“Carter,” he breathes against her ear.

There’s a subtle change in him, a fluid shift in the way he’s holding her, the way the breath against the curve of her neck becomes electrifying rather than desperate.

“Colonel,” she tries to say, but her voice is low and breathless instead of discouraging.

His nuzzles the hair behind her ear with his nose, and then deliberately runs a hand down her side, lingering over the curve of her hip. She should push him away, but she’s hypnotised by the wash of his breath against the sensitive skin; he is wrapping around her like a drug, clouding her judgement.

Slowly, deliberately, he runs his lips over the curve of her ear and nips her earlobe.

“Oh.” The breath is torn from her, and reflexively she tilts her head to give him more access.

He recognises his victory and the hand on her hip slides lower, curving over the outside of her thigh, hauling her closer to him. He’s hot and hard between her thighs already; she’s struggling to remember why this is so wrong. She breathes in the scent of him, burying her face in the hollow of his neck, tongue dipping out to taste him.

The groan is hoarse and deep, barely audible, but she feels it where she’s pressed so close to him. Another hot, damp kiss to that patch of skin behind her ear. Her breath is catching in her throat; ragged, uneven, desperate.

This is wrong, she thinks, kissing the sensitive skin under his jaw. So very wrong. He’s drugged, and half naked, and she should know better.

He takes over again, before she can pull away; his lips nuzzle the angle of her jaw, another gentle nip to her earlobe, a hand slipping under her shirt to stroke over the skin of her hips. The fire in her belly is flaring again, desperation driving the rocking of her pelvis against his.

Another groan, this time from her, and now his lips are on her neck, the graze of his teeth and the slip of his tongue as he tastes her. Her fingers nails are digging into his shoulders; she’s fighting to keep her hands still, to not let them glide over the smooth expanse of his back and chest. She’s losing control fast and she can’t, because if she slips there’s nothing to hold them back.

Her lips brush against his cheek, his breathing ragged against her ear.

“Carter,” he says, his voice a rumble against her, “I’m under the influence.”

His lips are so close she can almost taste them; can feel the puff of his breath while he talks against her skin. Everything aches for her to just give in, to let him lead her off the path of control and down the wild rabbit hole of desire and feelings and pleasure.

Except she can’t.

“I know,” she whispers, closing her eyes. “But I’m not.”

And if, with her eyes closed, she can’t see him, it’s purely an accident that she brushes against his lips with hers, a barely-there touch of soft skin against the sense of him; a touch which hardly soothes more than it aches.

She doesn’t pull away when his hands cup her jaw, splaying through her hair, thumbs brushing the exquisitely sensitive skin at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes are still closed, and she feels like she’s drowning in wood smoke and radiant heat and the gentle caress of his thumbs as they glide over her lips.

“God I wish you were,” he whispers hoarsely.

He’s still holding her face, resting his forehead against hers, noses bumping.

When his lips settle against hers it’s no accident; a gentle, firm pressure she’s been craving for longer than she can remember. He takes his time, long gentle caresses, and she winds her arms around him and drags her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

When they separate, her eyes are still closed and their foreheads are together. Her heart is racing in her chest; her lips are swollen and tingling and she can still taste him.

“Jack,” she whispers, hands dropping to his shoulders, keeping her eyes closed just a little longer.

Another gentle kiss on her cheek.

“We can’t do this,” she says. It shouldn’t have even come to this; he’s got impaired judgement and she let it go too far.

“I know,” he says. “But I want too.”

Something snaps loudly, cutting sharply through the still night air; Sam jolts out of his arms, scrambling for her gun. The noise is followed by the sound of something crashing through the underbrush away from them, disappearing into the distance.

Sam gets to the feet, heart still racing.

“I should check that,” she says.

“You should.”

“And you should get some rest.”

“Maybe.”

His skin is burnished by the firelight. “And maybe you should consider putting a shirt on now, sir.”

He half smiles at her. “Maybe.”

She takes much longer than she needs to, checking the perimeter and Teal’c’s traps twice, but it must have just been an animal. By the time she gets back to the campsite he’s still sitting up, wearing a shirt that’s clearly been stolen from Teal’c’s pack, staring into the fire.

She takes the time to look at him, the way his shoulders are dropped and hands are loosely clasping a cup. He looks so tired, and so defeated.

“You going to stare at me all night?” he calls quietly.

Sam’s grateful for the dark to hide the blush staining her cheeks as she silently makes her way back to the log. She sits down beside him, not so close that they’re touching, but close enough that there’s no significant distance between them.

Silently he hands her a hot cup; the brew is bitter and strong and will keep her awake all night.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“For what?”

“Not being there.”

The words are so vague, and could mean anything - for not being there after Daniel died, or not being there after Conrad kidnapped her, or any number of times in the last few months when she’s needed him and he’s pulled away because of what happened in that pod.

“I’ve missed you,” she confesses, trying to stamp on the anxiety that comes with honest discussion.

“I know. I’ve missed you too. But I couldn’t, Sam.”

She understands, she really does. Understands how difficult it is to maintain a distance or a friendship when that deep current of emotions threatens to sweep her away. How it feels when constant refusal and denial builds a dam in place that keeps threatening to burst its walls. And she understands the fear of that dam breaking and the floods releasing; how would they keep from drowning?

She knows he’s under the influence. Knows that without the drug in his system, this conversation and this whole evening would never, ever have happened.

So she reaches over and rests her hand on his arm, waiting until he turns his gaze from the fire to look at her.

“It’s okay,” she says. “But I miss _you_. Can we be friends again?”

“We can do that,” he says.

He turns his hand under hers until their palms cup together, and slowly interlinks their fingers; it’s soft and reassuring and intimate, and just what she needs him to do.

Friends. They can do that.

She ignores the burning ache inside that is those last, desperate embers holding out for something more than just friends and work colleagues, and tries to tell herself the weight in her chest is purely because Daniel is gone.

It’s not because she’s lost something else here tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic was supposed to be fun, but apparently Sam and Jack are pretty keen on being idiots at this point in the canon timeline, and they didn't really want to stop doing this to themselves in this fiction either. Sorry about that. Happier times will come, I promise :)


	7. Fire & Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are the chances though?” she asks, an audible shudder in her voice. “I mean, really? Another broken leg on an ice planet?”
> 
> “We don’t know that it’s definitely broken,” Jack says hopefully. 
> 
> “But this is going to hurt,” she acknowledges, closing her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG LOOK I WROTE MORE OF THIS FIC.
> 
> So. Thank you again to Sarah_M for the amazing beta despite illnesses and awful things trying to get in the way. She's a total superstar!

“Well,” Jack says. “This is a cliche.”

“It’s certainly turning into one, sir,” Carter agrees, her voice thready.

“Probably something we’d prefer not to turn into a cliche.”

“What are the chances though?” she asks, an audible shudder in her voice. “I mean, really? Another broken leg on an ice planet?”

“We don’t know that it’s definitely broken,” Jack says hopefully. 

“But this is going to hurt,” she acknowledges, closing her eyes.

“I need to get this boot off before you get frostbite. It’s wet through.”

Carter nods in resignation; she has enough field medical knowledge to know what will be coming. He tries to be gentle - he really does - and he can see how hard she tries to stifle her  scream, but part of it escapes, renting the air between them. Her eyes roll back and for several seconds there’s an empty silence. 

He takes the opportunity to give her a shot of morphine; he knows how much she hates it, and really, she should have had this before he took the boot off, but he knows Carter well enough to know she won’t accept it unless she knows it’s a last resort.

“Oh yeah,” he says when she comes back to reality. “Definitely broken. I gave you a shot of morphine; once it’s kicked in we’ll deal with your leg and get you out of your wet gear.”

It doesn’t take long to set up the waterproof sheeting underneath the sleeping bag in preparation for Carter to lie on once she’s dry. 

“Ready?”

She nods. Jack sets to work, trying hard not to cause her too much pain. Carter doesn’t swear, so when a curse falls from her lips he pauses briefly while wrapping the bandage carefully around the temporary splint supporting her ankle.

“You want the good news?”

“Sure,” she huffs out, her voice more air than sound as he resumes his bandaging.

“At least we’re not missing this time,” he says, trying to maintain a cheerful facade. “In fact, Daniel and Teal’c know exactly where we are right now.”

“How do… you know…” she’s panting, grimacing with pain, “they didn’t…. come down…. too.”

Jack carefully places her ankle on top of his pack and then taps his radio. “I’ve spoken to them.”

“You have?”

Jack frowns. “You don’t remember?”

She scrunches up her face; adjacent to the black rock she’s propped against, her face is almost as pale as the snow and ice surrounding them; even her lips look colourless. “No,” she admits. “I don’t really remember much after the ground gave way beneath me, and then you pulling me out of that stream.”

He swears internally; a head injury is the last thing they need right now.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” He holds up two fingers.

“Four.” 

“Very funny.”

“You normally think so.”

Well yes, that’s true. It’s not so funny when she’s the one with the head injury.

“Daniel and Teal’c have gone for help. We just need to stay warm until they get back,” he says.

“Are you going to suggest we conserve body heat again?”

He barks out a laugh; a sense of humour means she’s doing okay. “After I undress you.”

“My lucky day.”

A few years ago Jack might have made further suggestive remarks, just to see that shy little smile and the way she ducks her head; to feed that small, secret little fire burning between them. A year ago, and there wouldn’t have been any jokes between them. And now they’re friends so he’s allowed to joke a little but he’s careful in how far he takes them. 

Between the two of them, it’s reasonably quick peeling off her saturated BDUs, and he bundles her in the thermal blanket and sleeping bag. She’s quiet as he lights the sterno and sets a pot of ice on to melt.

“Where are you going?” she asks when he gathers his knife and his gun.

“Might be some wood for a fire around somewhere.”

Her eyes, now slightly hazy from the pain meds, narrow. “You’re wet too, sir.”

“I am,” he agrees, “but not as wet as you were. I’ll be back in ten minutes; don’t go anywhere.”

A half smile touches her lips. “I won’t.”

Beneath his wet boots, the snow crunches and squeaks as he makes his way carefully down the small rise and towards the hidden bed of the stream Carter came crashing down into. The steep incline Carter fell down looks even higher than he remembers. The evidence of her trail is a jagged disruption in the otherwise uninterrupted snowline; littered with rocks and debris, a small avalanche that may have cushioned her landing as much as it created her fall. He’s not entirely sure how he made it down the side himself; a flurry of terror and panic fueling the lunge after her, and an undignified slide amongst the rubble to find her lying so still in the icy cold water below.

His radio splutters to life as he’s pulling a large, damp log out from between two rocks. “Jack, you there?”

“Go ahead.”

“Teal’c and I are at the Stargate, we’ll dial Earth and then head back to you and Sam.”

“Negative,” Jack cuts in. “You and Teal’c go through that gate and warm up while the rescue team is assembled. We don’t need anyone else falling down a mountain or getting into trouble in the snow right now.”

“But Jack-”

“Daniel, the team’s going to need someone to guide them to us; it will be quicker on the snow mobile and much safer with people experienced in these conditions.”

The radio remains silent for longer than Jack likes.

“Okay.” Even over the radio, Daniel manages to project his irritation. “How’s Sam?”

“She’s got a broken ankle and a concussion at least, so the medics will need to be on standby. And she’s cold, so make sure they bring the warming kit.”

“And you, Jack?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?” 

“Radio when you ‘gate back,” Jack orders.

“Okay. See you soon, Jack.”

“Copy that.”

As though he can almost hear the Stargate disconnecting, a silence settles over the landscape. He pauses for a moment, cold and aching in all sorts of places he shouldn’t be aching, taking a breather to survey the landscape. Snow covered hills, mountain ridges and the dark shadows of rock. A sight as familiar here as on Earth.

He doesn’t mess around for much longer; it’s too cold and he’s too sore and worried about Carter to take longer than he needs. A couple of damp logs, some brittle branches and twigs, and he returns to their little area sheltered from the wind. 

Carter’s got her eyes closed and doesn’t stir when he starts building the fire. He checks the small pot on the sterno and throws in some tea bags to steep; Carter still hasn’t stirred, so he nudges her awake.

“How’re you going there, Carter?”

“Good, sir,” she says, her voice sounding hazy with sleep. She’s always been sensitive to morphine, but it’s hard to know if that slight slur is the drug or the knock to the head. 

“Think you can sit up?” 

“Sure.”

She’s wobbly and disoriented; he ends up propping her up against him before helping her with the cup of tea.

“Here.”

She has a few cautious sips; it’s obvious she’s struggling to keep her eyes open, and Jack has to keep his hands wrapped around hers while she’s holding the cup to stop her dropping it. Sitting there with her warmth in his arms, Jack realises just how bitingly cold this planet is, and remembers that he’s still wet. As if on cue, a shudder of cold rattles through him.

“I think I need to lie down,” she says quietly.

He takes the cup from her hands and helps her lay back down. “Okay, but I need you to stay awake - we may have to share that body heat after all.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she murmurs, but her eyes are drifting shut and he’s trying hard to stamp down a flare of fear trying to take hold of him.

He hesitates briefly, looking at his pack; with only one sleeping bag between them—Carter’s gear is missing under the pile of ice and rubble—sharing is an obvious choice. He hasn’t heard from the SGC yet, which tells him rescue is still a while away, so the priority is staying warm. For both of them.

He piles the remaining wood on the small fire, and then without further hesitation he strips off his wet boots, socks, pants and jacket before unzipping Carter’s sleeping bag and climbing in beside her; it’s a snug fit, but he spoons against her back and manages to get the bag zipped up around them.

She’s warm and soft, moulding tightly against him in the confines of the sleeping bag. Her breathing evens out, slow and regular, and he lies listening to it for some time before he realizes that his hand is rubbing gently up and down her arm. Beneath his roughened fingers, the skin of her arm is like silk. He stops the gentle stroking, trying to resist the temptation to keep touching her.

“Don’t stop,” she murmurs sleepily

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“I shouldn’t be sleeping with a head injury.”

Something inside him loosens a little in relief; if she’s still oriented enough to keep making jokes about her predicament, she’s not doing too bad.

Even though he knows he shouldn’t, he slides his arm up and down her arm again slowly, savouring the illicit freedom to just  _ touch _ her. He breathes in the familiar Carter scent of her hair so close to his nose and fills his lungs with it, trying to save some for dark, lonely nights to give himself the illusion of closeness to her.

They lie in silence for a long time, the only noise the odd creaking and cracking of the snow around them, and the spitting of the damp wood on the fire that’s still valiantly trying to burn.

“You asleep?” he asks eventually, voice barely more than a rumble. It feels so intimate and so comfortable curled up beside her like this.

“No,” she says. 

“How’s the leg?” 

“Morphine’s helping.”

He’s not sure how much time has passed, but he knows from experience the painkiller will wear off soon. 

“Let me know if you need more.”

“I will.”

He doubts that, but for now, given how still she’s lying against him, he won’t argue. Instead, he continues running his hand up and down her arm; he’s not sure if it’s more comforting for her or for him, and he doesn’t care to examine that too closely.

“You warm enough?”

“It’s not too bad.”

She’s lying through her teeth - despite the body heat and the shelter of the rockface behind them, the biting cold is still gnawing at him through the sleeping bag.

“They shouldn’t be much longer.”

“I know.”

Until then, he’s happy to lie with her like this and keep her warm until help arrives.

As if on cue, the radio he’s positioned beside them sputters to life.

“Jack, you there?”

Jack rolls his eyes; it’s been almost eight years and Daniel still refuses to use proper radio protocol. He reluctantly let’s go of Carter’s arm and reaches out of the warmth of their little cacoon for the radio. 

“No, Daniel, we decided to planet hop because the skiing is no good on this one.”

“How’s Sam?”

“She’s okay.”

“We’re here with SG-9 and eleven. We should be there within the hour.”

“I hope you brought coffee; Carter hasn’t had her usual lunch time fix yet.”

His fingers are already numb by the time he puts the radio away and drags his arm back into the warmth of the sleeping bag. Carter flinches when he puts his hand back on the skin of her arm; he’s not sure if it’s cold or other reasons making her stiffen.

“Sorry,” he mutters, pulling his hand off her arm and tucking it between them.

“It’s okay, it’s just cold,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to stop.”

Cautiously he runs his hand over her skin again. Now that he knows help is almost here, it seems like the wait is slipping by too quickly. How long will it be before he gets to lie down with her like this again, to be close to her, or spend time with only her?

Mostly, Jack’s very good at telling himself and the rest of the world that Carter is just his subordinate, a friend, and nothing more. Mostly. But there are times when he’s reminded just what this woman means to him, and how much more she means to him than she should. He so rarely gets the opportunity to just be in her presence without rank and protocol and propriety between them that he wants to savour it.

Almost too soon, there’s the unmistakable sound of mechanical motors in the distance, a loud buzzing like wasps heading towards them. 

“They’re almost here,” he murmurs, even though he’s well aware that she knows.

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to get up,” he says, warning her about the impending cold.

“Why?”

Because he’s half naked in a sleeping bag with a drugged Carter. Really, that’s not a good position to be found in.

“I’ll guide them here.”

“I’m sure they can follow the trail we made in the snow,” she points out pragmatically. “Besides, your clothes are wet and you’ll freeze, Colonel.”

She has a point. But as much as he’s enjoyed lying beside her, he’s also terrified about compromising her reputation. And she knows that, because she shifts a little beside him and suddenly her other hand is trapping his where it’s still moving over her upper arm. He stills his hand, waiting.

“It’s going to take them a while to work their way down the ravine safely. We need to stay warm, sir.”

“You’re supposed to be the one with the head injury,” he says; he knows she’s right, but it seems the reflex of propriety and his reactions around Carter is something almost ingrained into his soul now. Which is probably a good thing.

“I am,” she agrees, and then unexpectedly curls her fingers around his where they’re still resting on her arm. “So you shouldn’t leave me.”

He squeezes her fingers.

“I’ll never leave you, Carter.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I’ll never leave you either.”

But he’s terrified she is leaving him, because Pete’s waiting for her at home and she’s slipping further out of reach even though she’s lying right here beside him.

So he holds her until the rescue team arrives, and it’s only when Daniel and Fraiser appear that he reluctantly lets go of her fingers and crawls out of the sleeping bag.

The coldness that has wrapped around him has nothing to do with the snow or the ice, and everything to do with the fire that is slowly suffocating inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, please everyone close your eyes and ignore the blatant issues with the first aid and management of a head injury/fall in this chapter. Creative license all that!!


	8. Blessed Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I believe O’Neill is asking whether the union would need to be consummated,” Teal’c supplies helpfully when Jack doesn’t respond.
> 
> “Oh no, nothing like that!” Daniel denies vigorously. “It’s a pretty simple ceremony really. You exchange vows and receive the blessing that ties you together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I cannot BEGIN to say THANK YOU enough to Sarah_M for the AMAZING beta job for this chapter. She had to push through not only one, but THREE separate versions before we finally got there. So THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for encouraging me and making this SO MUCH BETTER.
> 
> Anything that isn't better is entirely my fault, because I probably ignored something she pointed out ;)
> 
> Also, to Georgia, just because x

“Well,” Jack says. “ _This_ is a cliche.”

“Indeed,” Teal’c agrees, raising his eyebrow.

“Daniel, is this not something that you should have clarified _before_ agreeing to participate in this ceremony, and dragging me out to this planet?”

Daniel shifts guiltily on his feet. “Well, it’s not an essential requirement,” he hedges.

“Good,” Jack says. “Easy. We just don’t.”

“But if you guys do this, the Loma-” 

“The what?”

“The Loma. Their spiritual leader or priest. Anyway, he agreed to let me have a look at the artefacts if you guys do this, and I think they could be Ancient in origin.”

Jack stares at Daniel. “So why don’t _you_ just marry Carter?”

Daniel looks sheepish. “The Loma knows I was previously married.”

“What about Teal’c?” Jack asks a little desperately. 

“I believe I have recently been wedded to Major Carter.”

“Don’t you want to marry me again?” Carter asks Teal’c, sounding hurt.

“I do not believe I am effective at this subterfuge,” Teal’c says bluntly.

Given the mission report and debriefing Jack had to sit through the last time this scenario came up, Jack thinks maybe Teal’c is right.

Jack turns his accusing stare back at Daniel. “So _this_ is why you insisted I need to come to this festival?”

“Well, there’s cake?” Daniel offers.

“They don’t really need me here as the ‘leader of our people’ do they? They just need me here to be a husband for Carter?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Ah.”

Jack sighs. He should have known it would be something like this.

“Does it involve any drugs or strange foods or.. You know… Marital duties?”

They’ve been caught out too many times in the past for Jack to not want to clarify the details. Then again, he’s not really sure that he trusts Daniel’s idea of clarification sometimes.

“What do you mean?”

“I believe O’Neill is asking whether the union would need to be consummated,” Teal’c supplies helpfully when Jack doesn’t respond.

“Oh no, nothing like that!” Daniel denies vigorously. “It’s a pretty simple ceremony really. You exchange vows and receive the blessing that ties you together.”

Jack consider the words. “Sounds simple enough. What do you think, Carter?”

“It would be worth it if there’s Ancient technology here, General.”

“Okay,” Jack says, adjusting the cap on his head. “Let’s go get married.”

\---

The ceremony takes place that night at the peak of the festival; the village is aglow with bonfires, lanterns and torches strategically placed, scented oils mixing with the woodsmoke and dried grasses for a pleasant, almost surreal atmosphere. The festival itself is composed of happy children with flower garlands playing games, food and drink flowing freely amongst the locals, and the tribal beat of the music pounding through the air.

Really, Jack thinks as he has another sip of his drink - definitely non-alcoholic, according to Daniel - it’s actually a pretty good party. And an even better reason to be back on an off-world mission and away from his desk. He’s missed this side of off-world travel; the shooting and running from bad-guys, not so much.

He checks his wrist watch - meaningless really, on this planet - and goes to find Daniel in the crowds.

It’s not that he’s not enjoying the party, but there’s a tension building in him over the pending nuptials, such as they are. He knows it’s not something that they haven’t done a hundred times before on a hundred different planets; marrying Carter, or pretending to be married, is much easier than telling the locals she’s single. But this time feels different.

Maybe it’s because she’s got Pete now. And a shiny new engagement ring of her own sitting in her locker back on Earth. He knows that as much as he’s tried to bury the feelings he has for her, he’s only been lying to himself. It’s easier in some ways now that she has Pete, because the ‘what if one day’ question seems to have been well and truly answered.

Still, it’s not going to make it any easier standing opposite her tonight and saying ‘I do’s’ when he knows that she’s going home to another man at the end of the day.

Just as he’s wondering where exactly Carter’s gotten to, she appears at the edge of the crowd surrounded by a group of women; even from this distance Jack can hear the soft knowing giggles and murmurs arising from the group as they usher Carter towards him. Carter takes it all in her stride, even if her cheeks look a little pink by the firelight.

God she’s beautiful. Still dressed in her BDUs, her skin glows in the firelight and her eyes sparkle up at him, amusement and maybe a little shyness in her gaze.

“You ready to get married?” he asks, tucking his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t do something stupid like reach out and offer her his arm.

“Yes sir,” she says with a smile.

The selfish, nasty part of himself can’t help but make the comparison that Carter seems a lot more certain about marrying him than she did about accepting Pete’s ring. Then again, this particular wedding isn’t a lifetime commitment so it probably doesn’t require the same amount of consideration.

“Let’s go.”

An arbor is set up near the main feast tables, decorated with wildflowers and grasses and well lit by several large torches surrounding the area. Beneath the arbor, the Loma waits with a thick coating of decorative paint on his face and an elaborate headdress perched on his greying curls.

“Are you prepared for the binding?”

“Sure are,” Jack says confidently. 

“Yes,” Carter agrees.

Of all the weddings they’ve been to, this particular ceremony is short and sharp and very underwhelming. They say the required vows to each other carefully, dutifully repeating them after the Loma. Jack knows this is just a ritual in a ceremony to be fulfilled, and it shouldn’t mean anything, but to him it does. Every word he utters while holding her hands and looking into her eyes, he means, even if he shouldn’t.

He wonders if she can tell that he will always adore her. That he will never stop loving her.

And when she carefully repeats her script back at him, he wonders whether she means those words at all.

Probably not, given the engagement ring back home belying that. But sometimes it’s okay to pretend for a little while.

Then the Loma slips a rope over his wrist and ties it tightly.

Wait, what?

\---

“You exchange vows and receive the _blessing that ties you together_?” Jack asks, raising his left wrist into the air, dragging Carter’s along with it.

“Well, I didn’t think it was _literally_ tied together,” Daniel says. 

Jack knew he shouldn’t have trusted Daniel’s reassurances.

“How long does this stay on for?”

“Until the first child is conceived.”

“Oh, we are _not_ staying that long.” Jack reaches over to his wrist, trying to examine the knots in the piece of twine linking their wrists together like make-shift handcuffs. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, and given the very short length of rope between their wrists there’s no way that he’ll get it undone with only one hand free to manipulate the knots. It takes him a few seconds to locate his knife. He’s positioning it under the twine, Carter pulling her end to give him some tension, when the Loma speaks again.

“Do you not honor this union?”

“It’s just that I’m not really into the handcuffs scene, you know. At least, not on a first date.”

“Jack,” Daniel sighs, closing his eyes. 

“If you do not honor this union, you do not honor our agreements or our ways,” the Loma declares. 

Jack pauses, knife edge resting against the twine. “Uh…”

“It’s just until we go home, Jack,” Daniel says quietly. “Please.”

He looks over at Carter. She gives a small barely discernible tilt of her head; he sighs and lowers the knife.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll honor it.”

The Loma turns his decorated face toward Daniel. “Then you will see the Gifts.”

“Teal’c, you go with him.”

Teal’c nods and follows Daniel who is eagerly walking alongside the Loma, already disappearing into the darkness beyond the ring of firelight. Which leaves him standing alone with Carter, still tied together.

He holds the knife out; a silent question to her.

“It’s okay, sir,” she replies with a soft sigh.

He puts the knife back in his sheath. Part of him wishes it was actually okay to be married and tied to Carter. 

“What now?” he asks her.

“Another drink?” she suggests, as though there is nothing out of the ordinary about the fact that they’re now married and tied together at the wrist. “And then I guess we wait until Daniel and Teal’c are done.”

“Lead the way.”

Carter drags him - almost literally by the rope around their wrists - over to a table set up with refreshments. The rope isn’t tied tightly enough to be painful, but the length between his and Carter’s wrist is short enough to make things uncomfortable. The twine rubs and tugs and pulls tight often, despite the fact that they’re walking together. By the time they’ve worked out how to pour themselves drinks, with only one hand each in a functional state, his skin is raw and burning. Judging by the grimace on Carter’s face and the way she tries to stay close to him, he figures she’s as uncomfortable as he is.

“Let’s go sit over there,” he suggests. There’s a large pile of hay bales scattered around the outskirts of the festivities, with several people already using them as chairs and resting points. 

Even though the distance is short, the walk is uncomfortable. They’re walking side by side, step by step, but still the motion is disjointed and jarring. They can’t seem to find their usual rhythm with each other. Jack ignores the fact that their internal rhythm has been off for some time.

“This is nuts,” he says after a particularly painful jolt, irritation and frustration building at the ridiculous situation. “We can end this right now.”

He dumps his cup on the hay bales and pulls his knife out of its sheath in frustration; Carter’s obviously not expecting his abrupt stop and the rope between them jars painfully again. 

“We can’t, sir.” 

“Like hell we can’t.”

“We told Daniel we wouldn’t.”

“And who’s going to know?” 

She raises an eyebrow and deliberately flicks her eyes in the distance Daniel and the Loma disappeared in. 

“This really is stupid,” he says, grabbing her hand and examining the raw skin beneath the twine. “Why would they punish newlyweds like this?”

She looks down at where he’s holding her hand in both of his. “I think the reason this isn’t working is because we’re not acting like newlyweds,” she offers quietly.

Her skin is pale against the darker tone of his own. She’s not a tiny woman, but her hand is almost engulfed by his; slender and feminine with soft skin and delicate bones. 

“How do newly weds act?” he asks, surprised at the husky timbre his voice has developed.

She moves her hand in his until their fingers are linked, palms together. 

“Like this.” 

They stand quietly, studying their joined hands for a long moment. The feel of her hand in his makes something inside clench almost painfully; he finds he’s unable to let go. 

He looks up to find her watching him; in the soft lighting he can almost convince himself there’s something long forgotten or denied in her expression. 

Between them, that something seems to swell a little, trying to solidify. Jack’s throat tightens, and he can’t manage to break her gaze.

It would be so easy to say something stupid now; something glib. To slip back into old ways just to see if she’ll still smile and duck her head, or shoot him that shy look she used to save for only him.

The knowledge of a metal band tucked in her locker at home fractures the silence with little cracks, and he finds he has to swallow to loosen the knot in his throat.

For a moment he thinks she’s going to say something; her mouth quirks and she blinks as though readying herself for something significant, but a group of women appear around them, an enveloping cloud of silk and soft scents and laughter. And just like that, the moment—that _something_ —is gone, tucked away out of sight and probably never to be brought out again.

A garland is draped over her head, small wildflowers dainty against the burnished gold of her hair. A soft weight on his head tells him that he’s also been ‘crowned’. Gentle hands tug and pull and push them along; with a shrug and a brief smile she gives up fighting the tide and lets the locals guide them to the middle of the festivities. 

“What’s going on?” he asks her, having to duck his head low so she hears him over the thudding of the drums and the swell of the voices around them.

“I have no idea.”

Abruptly the music and drumming dies down, leaving them standing awkwardly in the middle of a crowd of natives, an air of expectation hovering over them.

“If there’s some crazy part of this wedding ritual that Daniel forgot to mention, I swear I will shoot-”

A single, pure voice flows out of the crowd from somewhere behind them, the perfect alto tone hanging in the air like a lingering whisper. The sound fades away, dissolving into a silence that waits to be filled.

And then quietly, hauntingly, the melody rises up again, more voices adding to it, but that single clear voice leads them all. There’s a gentle movement in the crowd around them; an easy swaying as the song continues and builds. It makes Jack think of Irish myths and the early sun as it shines through the mist on his lake at home; of starlit nights and an unending possibilities. 

Jack startles when the first hands brush against him, instinctively pulling Carter closer as he turns his focus back to the encroaching crowd. 

“What the hell is this?” he demands as more people continue to lay hands on them. Additional voices harmonise while more and more hands are laid on them, or as close to them a those in the back of the group can get. And then it’s as though an echo surrounds them as the melody is split into different threads, until it feels like the song is coming from everywhere and nowhere and he's almost disoriented by the voices around them.

Unexpectedly the building harmonies coalesce into a single, ringing chord, hanging in the still night, until he realizes with surprise the voices have stopped, but the sound still lingers in his ears; the ghost of the melody just out of reach. 

Without the singing he feels almost deaf, and is suddenly aware of just how close he is holding Carter against him. As unexpectedly and insidiously as the strange moment started, it passes—the crowd backing away gracefully until even the touch of their hands on him is nothing more than a lingering impression.

“Well,” he says, his voice a little loud as he breaks the awkward silence. “That was… different.”

“Yeah,” Carter agrees, sounding a little flustered; she’s still standing against him, their joined hands resting on his chest between them.

“What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” Carter murmurs, her voice hot against his ear. “Maybe a blessing of some sort?”

He’s struggling to find his equilibrium for some reason. “Like live long and prosper?”

She smothers a chuckle; God he loves that way her eyes smile at him when he makes her laugh.

“Maybe,” she says, and when she meets his eyes he’s gratified to see a glint in them. “Either that or a fertility blessing.”

“Hey,” he says, tugging gently on her bound wrist. “My fertility does not need a blessing.”

She ducks her head, hiding the smile he knows she’s struggling to suppress. “Probably just as well Daniel isn’t here to tell us exactly what that was about.”

Jack feels an unexpected amount of glee. “He’s going to be so annoyed when he hears that he missed it. Whatever _it_ was.”

She chuckles again, and Jack realizes that even though the crowd has dispersed and the festivities seem to have returned to their previous levels, Carter’s still standing awfully close to him, and looking awfully tempting.

He tries very hard to be subtle about stepping away from her, but it’s not easy when their hands are still tied together and jerk painfully when he lets go. She looks at him, and he can’t tell if she’s confused or upset about him putting the distance between them; either way, it’s not really something he wants to focus on.

Their drinks are still sitting over on the haybales, and he's about to suggest returning for them before realizing that sitting in the shadows on a haybale with Carter isn’t a particularly good idea right now.

“Feel like a walk?”

“Yes, sir.”

When her hand finds his again as they set off, he reminds himself firmly that they’re on a mission, and the hand holding is a necessity.

At first their hands feel awkward cupped together when they walk, as though they’re forcing something to fit that isn’t quite right. But it’s been such a long time since he’s held hands with someone he’s attracted to, that he thinks maybe it’s just his nerves that’s the issue. So he pays attention to the way their palms bump together while they walk and how her skin slides against his. At some point—he’s not really sure where on the walk it happens—their fingers tangle together and suddenly it feels as though walking hand in hand with Carter is the most natural thing on Earth; or on P2C-958 for that matter.

They wander along a path skirting around the village for a time, leaving the fire behind and following the bright moonlight instead. As the music fades into the background Jack notices the way their footsteps keep time, and the way their hands fit together as though they’re made for each other.

Maybe a moonlit walk wasn’t such a great idea either.

Ahead of them, dusted by moonlight, the Stargate looms tall and imposing in the landscape. At its base a handful of older children are giggling and running around, lost in the depths of a game. They stop walking without exchanging a word and pause to watch the children.

He doesn’t realize he’s started gently stroking his thumb across the sensitive skin on the edge of her palm and wrist until her fingers tighten ever so briefly against his. He looks down at her, but she’s studiously watching the children play over the rock formations surrounding the ‘gate.  Carefully he traces his thumb over her thumb, half wondering if her pulse is pounding like his is at the intimate contact. 

She licks her lips, but doesn’t move.

Then her thumb slides against his palm mirroring his caresses, and suddenly his heart is hammering erratically in his chest. But the last time he gave in to a crazy impulse - he has to force down flashes of the way it felt pressed against her in that tight little pod so many years ago. It took them weeks to recover some semblance of near-normal, and he’s not convinced that things between them were ever really right after that moment. 

He’s missed Carter. He’s missed the closeness and easy camaraderie. He’s missed the secret smiles and excitement of new feelings and that thrill of every small, accidental or not-so-accidental touch. When did they get replaced with tired glances and the absence of physical contact, in case something was misconstrued? Maybe it was the death of those feelings that made the room for Pete in her life.

So he says nothing while he watches the children, still holding her hand in his as though it’s one last link a future he’d once hoped might be his.

Eventually, the children tire of their games, and silently he and Carter follow the little group back to the village, hands still linked. They find a roughly hewn bench under a rickety barn and settle in to wait for their team mates, clasped hands resting comfortably on Jack’s thigh, fingers still interlinked. 

If there was a time to let go this would be it, but it’s so easy to just sit there with his head back and eyes half closed, Carter’s hand warm in his own. As though she’s able to read his thoughts, her fingers twitch in his hand. He tightens his hold on her fingers, trapping them against his own, reluctant to break the tenuous contact between them. 

A single, deliberate caress of her thumb against his palm has him relaxing his hold, but he doesn’t quite manage to let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. Almost at the end. The final chapter is WRITTEN, it just needs a polish and tidy up when I've let Sarah_M recover from the mission that was this chapter.
> 
> And it IS a cliche fic, so we all know where it's going... don't we? ;)


	9. Happy Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And really, it is a cliche, because it’s the night of his retirement and she’s sitting on the railing of his front porch, waiting for him to get home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the amazing Sarah_M for devoting HOURS to this for me; I just cannot thank her enough :)

****“Well, this is a cliche,” he says as he walks up the steps in his dress blues. She’s not surprised to see that the buttons on his jacket are already undone, as though he’s starting to shrug out of the uniform and the associated rank even before he walks in his own front door.

“Yes,” she says. “It is.”

And really, it is a cliche, because it’s the night of his retirement and she’s sitting on the railing of his front porch, waiting for him to get home. He doesn’t seem at all surprised to find her here. Then again the motorbike he had to walk around in the middle of his driveway kind of gave it away.

“What are you doing here, Carter?”

Something inside her trips a little; a hint of trepidation. If this is a cliche, how does he not know what she’s doing here? 

She opens her mouth to stammer out a lame excuse, maybe some corny well wishes on retiring, but something stops her. She’s backed down from this conversation—this moment—so many times in the past. She’s done with fumbling over awkward metaphors and half-asked questions, without ever coming out and just saying it. 

And she’s been wearing her best—and most uncomfortable—underwear under her uniform all day, and damn it, she hasn’t gone through all the discomfort for nothing.

So instead she meets his gaze—difficult in the shadows of his porch—and holds it in a way she’s never managed to before.

“Are you going to offer me a drink?”

He shrugs and unlocks the door. “Sure.”

The Guinness is cold and bitter, but she hardly tastes it. The fizz of it runs through her, warming her blood. Or maybe that’s the effect of the way he keeps looking at her with that intense focus, studying her carefully, but not giving anything away.

She hates when she can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling. For the better part of eight years, it’s been a wild ride of hot and cold, until sometime over the last few years those moments have dwindled, and she’s not entirely sure now that she’s read the situation right tonight.

Does he still feel that way about her?

No, she’s sure she didn’t read the situation wrong. She felt him watching her all evening at the not-so-surprise surprise party that Walter and Siler organised; their eyes kept meeting and it had nothing to do with the fact that he was trying to escape the fuss, and everything to do with a conversation they still haven’t had.

So why the games now?

She takes another draw of the Guinness, surprised to find she’s finished it already. She puts the empty bottle on the cupboard she’s leaning against.

“There’s more in the fridge.”

Maybe it’s the Guinness, or maybe it’s the champagne she had earlier, but she’s tired of playing games.

“I’m not here for the Guinness, Jack.”

It feels dangerous and reckless and so very bold to use his name.

His eyebrows lift a little, but his gaze doesn’t falter, not even when he lifts his own bottle to his lips and takes a casual pull.

“Then why are you here?” 

Usually, she has no doubt that his pretence at not understanding things is an act; surely this suggestion of ignorance is no different.

Deliberately she lets her gaze drop; focusing on his lips and then travelling slowly down his body, taking in the familiar planes and shape that she’s never really studied so boldly before, but that are as familiar to her as her own reflection. When she finally looks back up at him, she thinks maybe his eyes have darkened just a little.

He reaches up, tugging on his tie to loosen it.

She steps over to him before she’s even consciously aware of what she’s doing; moving in close to his warmth and gently batting his hand out of the way. Carefully, deliberately, she releases the knot on his tie and then slowly pulls it from around his neck.

“Carter?”

This close to him, she can feel his breath stirring the hair on her forehead, and almost smell the hint of his aftershave on the air. She licks her lips, avoiding his gaze and focusing instead on his chest. The collection of ribbons and medals there are glinting in the dim lighting, and she studies them for a moment. The reflection of his bravery and commitment and service. The man who he is. Almost reverently she lifts a hand and carefully touches them, running her fingers over them and listening to the soft clinking as they move against each other.

“What are you doing?” His voice is low and a little rough. 

“I thought it was obvious.”

“It probably is,” he agrees, “but I’m not good at these games, Carter. You’re going to have to tell me.”

He catches her hand with his own before she can pull away and step back, curling his fingers around hers and holding it close against his chest. 

“You’re retired now,” she says, as though that’s explanation enough.

“Yes, I am.”

God he’s frustrating when he’s in a mood like this.

Unexpectedly, he lifts his other hand and cups her cheek carefully, thumb whispering across the sensitive skin along her cheekbone and under her eye. Despite herself, her eyes close and she leans into his touch.

“You’re not making this easy,” she complains.

“No, I’m not,” he murmurs, “but neither have you.”

No, she supposes that she hasn’t made things easy. Especially not throwing Pete and an engagement into the mix. No wonder he’s cautious.

It is, however, the first time she’s come to him like this, with no regulations or duty between them, so maybe she owes it to him to lay it all on the line. 

“You know why I’m here. You know what I want.”

The hand against her cheek flexes, and he leans forward, resting his forehead against hers. So close, but it’s not enough. Not anymore.

“I know what I’m _hoping_ you want,” he says quietly, the breath of his words puffing against her lips like a kiss on the breeze. 

“I want you.” 

The words hang between them, filling the silence with a deafening certainty. Now that they’re out, she marvels at how simple it actually is to tell him what she wants. What she needs. 

“I want you, Jack. I want this.”

His fingers tangle in her hair and he tips her face up toward him; she’s so rarely seen him vulnerable that she almost doesn’t recognize him. 

“Are you sure, Carter?”

The smile tugs at her lips. “You know me sir; I’m not usually wrong.”

“How do you know you’re right this time?”

It’s a valid question, given she’s coming off the back of a broken engagement.

“Because it’s you,” she says simply. “I love you.”

He lets out a slow breath, a sigh of tension escaping him before touching his forehead to hers again. His thumbs stroke over her cheeks, and his nose bumps against hers gently—teasing—but he stays just out of reach.

“Well?” she demands, tentatively creeping her hand up over his shoulders and letting her fingers comb through the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

“You know how I feel about cliches, Carter.”

“You know they’re cliches for a reason, right sir?”

“Well,” he says, his lips half a breath away from hers. “This is definitely a cliche.”

And, finally, they kiss.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is, finally finished! It's such an amazing feeling to have actually FINISHED this story! 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read along and kept patience with me with the long delays between updates. I appreciate each and every single comment and LOVE to hear that you've all enjoyed it. I've had so much fun writing this, and am a bit sad it's all over :(
> 
> Thanks again, and hope you all enjoyed :)


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